


Your Sexual Identity Crisis Is Boring John I Want To Fuck You Now - a piece for solo violin in D Major

by wendymarlowe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gratuitous Smut, M/M, Mild BDSM themes, a bit of crack too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-04 20:57:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15155468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe
Summary: There was a song which often could be heard inside the confines of 221B Baker Street. It was one of Sherlock’s original compositions. John usually called it “that damned screechy one seriously what the hell Sherlock,” but its proper title was actually “Your Sexual Identity Crisis Is Boring John I Want To Fuck You Now.” Unfortunately, since this was more of a working title than a public proclamation and said sexual identity crisis was still merely a theory in Sherlock’s mind, John had yet to fully understand the more subtle programmatic aspects of the piece.





	Your Sexual Identity Crisis Is Boring John I Want To Fuck You Now - a piece for solo violin in D Major

There was a song which often could be heard inside the confines of 221B Baker Street. It was one of Sherlock’s original compositions. John usually called it “that damned screechy one seriously what the hell Sherlock,” but its proper title was actually “Your Sexual Identity Crisis Is Boring John I Want To Fuck You Now.” Unfortunately, since this was more of a working title than a public proclamation and said sexual identity crisis was still merely a theory in Sherlock’s mind, John had yet to fully understand the more subtle programmatic aspects of the piece.

Sherlock was starting his third improvisation on the theme one particularly hateful Sunday afternoon. It was raining, there were no cases on, Lestrade wasn’t returning Sherlock’s frequent texts, and John had snapped his laptop closed and stormed upstairs to his bedroom some twenty minutes earlier. Mrs. Hudson had binned everything she didn’t deem up her lofty standards in the fridge and there were no pressing scientific questions in Sherlock’s mind... at least, none that could be answered by experimenting on the pitifully few materials John and Mrs. Hudson had left him in the flat. Sherlock broke off mid-crescendo and flopped backward into the sofa.

“Bored,” Sherlock grumbled aloud. Then, for emphasis, “Bored, bored, BORED!”

The worst part was, he knew exactly what John was doing upstairs. John usually tried to hide it, of course, but whenever he was in a crummy mood (which, Sherlock had to admit, highly correlated with his own), he retreated to his bedroom to masturbate. He usually came shuffling down the stairs anywhere from forty minutes to an hour later, slunk into the loo to wash up, then came out much more tolerant of Sherlock’s sulks. To the point where he’d fix himself tea, resume his usual place in his chair, and utterly ignore Sherlock for the rest of the evening.

As always: unacceptable.

Sherlock glowered at the ceiling for a few minutes, straining to hear any stray noises from upstairs, but John was always frustratingly quiet when he thought Sherlock didn’t know what he was up to. And - as much as Sherlock hated to admit it - the man was generally successful. Right this very moment he could be wanking furiously, or teasing his arsehole with one slick fingertip, or fucking his fist with long, luxurious glides while pretending he was performing coitus with whichever dull, interchangeable woman he was currently not calling back after one too many embarrassingly short dates. He could be doing all three and Sherlock wouldn’t know because John was up _there_ and he was down _here_ and no matter how hard Sherlock listened, the walls and floors in 221B were thick enough to muffle all but the most obvious sounds.

Finally Sherlock could stand it no longer. He shoved himself up off the sofa, bounded up the stairs, and interrupted his flatmate.

“Bored, John! Entertain me!”

John startled violently and yanked the quilt up over himself. “Jesus, Sherlock! Knock, maybe?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I know you were wanking. Surely you don’t think I didn’t deduce it. But I’m _bored_ and you are the only non-boring thing in this flat.”

“Charming,” John said dryly. “Still doesn’t excuse you for not knocking. In fact, if you assumed I was engaged in something private, that’s even _more_ reason not to come blustering in like you expect me to do a trick.”

“Not much of a trick, I’m sure, but still less likely to make my grey matter leak out my ears than the unrelenting _nothingness_ happening downstairs. I might as well watch you.”

John blinked, and then his forehead furrowed in the _bloody not good, Sherlock_ look he’d gotten so much practice at since they moved in together. “You want to watch me wank,” he repeated. “You, Sherlock Holmes, married to your work and utterly disdainful of your transport, want to watch someone do something involving sex.”

God, was his poor little brain truly that slow, or was John exerting a special effort on his behalf? Sherlock groaned. “Not _someone,_ John. You. I want to watch _you_ pull yourself off, want to see all those wonderful little facial expressions you’ll make without realizing it.”

“So I’m an observational study. Charming.”

“I won’t get in your way. In fact, pretend I’m not here. Think of whatever insipid woman you were envisioning before so my presence doesn’t bias the results.”

“Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle, masturbation corollary,” John deadpanned. “You can apparently know _if_ I’m wanking but not be there, or you can try to watch but then put me off attempting to go any further and thus ruin the whole thing.”

Sherlock made a “hurry up” gesture and settled in to sit on John’s bureau. “I notice you still have your hand under the quilt,” he pointed out. “Clearly my presence isn’t putting you off _that_ much.”

“Yes, well.” John cleared his throat. “Your deductions may have missed a few steps.”

 _Impossible._ Sherlock pressed his forefingers to his lips in thought. “I’m not wrong about what you were - are - doing,” he said slowly. “You regularly hide out up here to get off when I’m in a strop and you’re cranky about it. Your timing is remarkably consistent.”

John just raised an eyebrow and waited for him to continue.

“Not much more to the deduction, then, so I don’t see how it could be wrong. You masturbate for approximately thirty minutes, come downstairs between ten and thirty minutes later for the loo and tea, and then become annoyingly _tolerant_ for the rest of the evening. Even though my grey cells are literally dying of boredom minute by minute.”

“And? Draw any conclusions from that?”

“That orgasm does a particularly good job of scrambling your neurotransmitters? What? It couldn’t--”

Sherlock broke off as an idea struck him. A crazy, ridiculous idea, and yet...

“John,” he said in a low voice, “are you… are you wanking to thoughts of taking your anger out on _me?”_

John’s answering flush was all the confirmation he needed. “Can you blame me? And it’s not taking my anger out on you, per se, it’s just…”

“Not envisioning sex acts with your varied and forgettable girlfriends.”

“Not usually, no.” John’s tentative smile wasn’t his _Sherlock you’re so brilliant and amazing_ grin, but hints of that showed through. “I’m going to assume that anyone who knowingly barges in on his flatmate wanking isn’t going to get terribly offended at that revelation, correct?”

“That depends.” Sherlock’s mind was racing. _Not boring, John. Not boring at all._ “Would you tell me about it? What you’re picturing?”

John licked his lips thoughtfully, but he didn’t immediately say no. “Sherlock, they’re just fantasies. I know they’re implausible and - quite frankly - horribly rude for me to even entertain the idea. I don’t mind you knowing, I suppose, because I’ve gotten used to you knowing damn near everything about me and having no bloody boundaries, but this is… I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Sherlock tactfully didn’t mention that if anything, John was the one who should be uncomfortable because Sherlock barged in on him and created this compromising situation in the first place. If John minded Sherlock trampling boundaries, though, clearly he had poor taste in friends. “You won’t,” Sherlock declared airily. “This is _interesting_. And I’m not easily offended.”

John giggled at that. “God, no, you’re really not.”

“Well then.” Sherlock leaned forward, elbows on his knees, oddly breathless at the possibility that John would be willing to show _this_ , such a personal and private thing as masturbatory fantasies. “John,” he pointed out, “you _do_ want to make me uncomfortable. A little, at least, in retaliation for me being a bloody bastard to you when I’m in a bad mood. Just because I don’t care doesn’t mean I don’t _know._ ”

“Yeah, okay, you’ve got me there.” John laughed again. Still with his left hand under the covers, Sherlock noticed.

 _Hmmm..._ “What if I set the scene?” The possibilities whirled through Sherlock’s brain. What would make John Watson, _Captain_ John Watson, truly exasperated with him? Time to put his deductive powers to use. “Imagine… say we’ve been a full week without a decent case, and the weather has been such that we’ve both been cooped up in the flat for the duration. I started doing an experiment involving various noxious fumes in the kitchen and measuring the permeation of particles in the air in various parts of the flat over time, strong enough that Mrs. Hudson is threatening to call in a biological contamination clean-up crew again. I abandoned it halfway through, of course, because my brain is rotting from disuse and it’s too much effort to clean it all up. Oh, and let’s say I used your RAMC mug as ground zero for at least one of the thiols - ( _E_ )-2-butene-1-thiol, maybe, or 3-methyl-1-butanethiol.”

John gave him a blank look.

“The two most active components in skunk spray,” Sherlock explained. “I’ve also yet to adequately measure the aerosol possibilities of sulphur dioxide, paraformaldehyde, cadaverine, pyridine--”

“I get it, thanks.”

“Right.” Sherlock could have listed off half a dozen more, but John seemed to be getting the picture despite not being a particularly enthusiastic chemist. “So I do all that, and then I’m flopped on the sofa glaring at the ceiling because you won’t let me shoot the wall anymore. And instead of stomping off up here to wank, you do… what? How would you get back at me?”

John held his breath for an interminably long time. Then: “Are you sure?” he asked quietly.

“Yes.” _More sure than I’ve been of anything else in my life._

“Right.” John nodded to himself. “And if you decide you’d rather this conversation had never happened you’ll just… delete it or something?”

“I promise.” _Never in a million years._

“Okay. Well.” John licked his lips again, more thoughtful this time. “It’s not that I get off on the idea of actually _hurting_ you, really. It’s more frustration than anything.”

“Noted. But John?” Sherlock held his gaze steadily. “ _I_ do _._ I like the idea of what you’d do if you let that tightly-leashed Captain Watson out. You’re far too civilized and ‘nice’ to go through with it, I’m sure, but I find the image of you punishing me… intriguing.”

“Seriously?”

“I’m not actually asexual, you know. I may have given the wrong impression that first night at Angelo’s. It’s just that I rarely find interpersonal relationships important enough to take time away from The Work. You are… an exception. In many ways.”

“Oh. _Oh._ ” John took a moment to absorb that. “You are actually talking about sex, though, right?”

 _Obviously._ “Yes, good, you finally got that, did you? About time; it’s only taken a year and a half.”

“Berk.” John grinned. “Okay, then, but I’ve warned you. So in this theoretical scenario, are you sulking in your dressing gown and pajamas, or in a full suit?”

“Dressing gown, definitely. Unless you’d rather it be a sheet.”

“I can work with dressing gown. The blue one. I’ll assume I’ve already tried to lecture you about the smell and you’re completely ignoring me. If it was really that bad I’d probably brave the rain and go down to Speedy’s or something instead of come up here, but if we’re imagining…” He paused for a moment, thinking. “I’ve still got my combat boots. I _would_ stomp up here, but not to wank. I’d put my boots on, the better to kick your arse with if you didn’t get up off the sofa. And a nice comfortable white t-shirt to go with my sturdiest trousers. Something I could fight in if I had to. Wish I still had the rest of my uniform, but those will have to do.”

 _“Yes.”_ Lord, this was already shaping up to be better than Sherlock had expected. “Yes, that.”

John smirked at him. “I’d stomp right back down the stairs,” he said, “and you’d probably still lie there ignoring me. Maybe roll over with a huff like you can’t possibly be bothered with human trivialities like _existing._ Or cleaning, or apologies. But when you rolled over, I’d step in and smack your arse the way you deserved. Hard. I imagine you’d jump, look around wildly for a moment, getting ready to argue--but I’d smack you again, spanking you through that poncy dressing gown. Or no--I’d flip the dressing gown up over your back and yank down your pajama trousers so I could smack your posh arse. Might have to hold you down with a knee on your back, if you were squirming, but I’d go until you couldn’t hold the noises in anymore. Until you were begging me to have mercy.”

Sherlock’s mouth was suddenly very dry. “I’ve never begged for mercy in my life,” he choked out.

John’s smile was merely one step from _wicked._ “You would,” he declared. “You’d get all choked up and snivelly, tears and snot dripping down onto the arm of the sofa, completely ruining your aloof facade. But your arse would be so beautifully red and warm. And you’d let me.”

“I would,” Sherlock agreed. “ _John.”_

John arm was visibly moving again, now, shifting slightly as he presumably stroked himself under the quilt. The thick material obscured most of the details and Sherlock realized he’d give up a good case, _ten_ good cases, to be able to see what John was doing.

“When I decided you were ready,” John continued after a moment, “I think I’d haul you off the sofa and put you on your knees for me in the middle of the room. Pajama trousers right as they were, halfway down your thighs. Your dressing gown spread out behind you. I’d make you sit back on your heels so you were squirming with overstimulation on your poor abused arse and you had nowhere to hide.”

“I’d be totally at your mercy, John. Is--would my position make my erection visible as well?”

“Mmmm.” John eyed Sherlock’s lap. Where an embarrassing erection _was_ struggling to make an appearance already. “It would, I believe,” he said. “You might have to take your trousers and pants off to see for sure.”

Sherlock was on his knees on the floor of John’s bedroom before he even fully realized he’d made the choice to move. He wasn’t currently in his pajamas, more’s the pity, but he wriggled his dress trousers and Y-fronts down in record time and sank back on his heels to await more instructions. If John had any doubts about Sherlock being asexual, surely this would provide some evidence to the contrary?

John did watch, transfixed. He didn’t argue that he was just speaking hypothetically, though.

“Now?”

John licked his lips again. “Now I’d stand there looming over you and enjoy being the taller one for once,” he declared. There was a breathless note in his voice that told Sherlock that the sexual tension in the room wasn’t just in his imagination. “I wouldn’t need to tug down my own khakis as far as I did yours to get out my cock--just enough I could pull it out, play with it a bit. Tease you.”

 _“Yes._ Christ, John. Would you--could I touch it?”

“Oh, you’d have your hands locked behind your back at parade rest, or else. But I think I’d probably mark you if I could. Trail some precome down your cheek, those epic cheekbones. Tap the head against your posh lips a few times.”

“Even though my face would be all ruined from crying?”

“Especially then.” John smirked. “What, you think I’d go easy on you after just a little spanking? No, you’d have to _earn_ my forgiveness. Convince me you’re truly sorry.”

“I’d suck you exactly the way you like it best,” Sherlock said immediately. “Slow and hard, with lots of tongue just under the ridge of the glans. You could fuck my throat if you wanted.” Not that he’d spent endless long nights attempting to deduce what sort of fellatio John would like best...

 _“Fuck.”_ John’s arm sped up for a moment, then settled back to its original pace. “No, I don’t think so, Sherlock. You’d go at _my_ say-so, slow or fast or deep or hard or merely a tease and barely any contact at all. In fact, I think I’d set you some rules. Like you don’t get to stop ‘apologizing’ until after _you’ve_ come. Despite me fucking your face. Lick your fingers and tease your hole, but hands off your cock. I want to see what you look like when you’re desperate.”

Sherlock could probably have achieved orgasm at that thought alone, but he obediently sucked on two fingers on his right hand until they were dripping with saliva and then reached behind himself for his arsehole. He started to turn to give John a better view, but John cleared his throat and Sherlock froze.

“Right like you are,” John commanded. “Still no touching your cock.”

Sherlock jammed his left hand knuckles into his mouth and bit down with a moan. It wasn’t as good as _really_ having John’s penis between his lips, but it was at least something. His arsehole was starting to loosen a bit under his questing fingertips. He shivered.

“Oh, _fuck,_ ” John murmured. “Like that. Just like that.”

“Can I… may I see you?”

John hesitated only a moment, then drew back the covers. Underneath he was wearing only a t-shirt and boxers, neither of which were doing anything to hide the massive erection peeking out through the fabric. He was fisting himself lazily, slow and hard, exactly like Sherlock had predicted he’d prefer. His entire shaft gleamed wetly, and Sherlock realized with a start that John must have used lubrication at some point in anticipation of a nice leisurely wank.

“Deductions?” John asked quietly.

Sherlock shook his head no.

“Really?”

“Not… not running on full power right now,” Sherlock admitted, and groaned. It didn’t take much imagination _at all_ to imagine the fingers circling his arsehole were John’s instead. He could nearly taste John’s pre-ejaculate in his mouth.

“You come first, then,” John murmured. “I want to see you come apart, imagine your posh lips stretched around my cock as you close your eyes and shudder and give in to biology. Want you to come, totally untouched, solely because I told you to.”

Sherlock knew a challenge when he heard one. It wasn’t _much_ of a challenge, because it felt like a stiff breeze might tip him over into an orgasm right then, but he still dutifully choked himself on his knuckles as he worked one and then two fingers inside himself and sought out his own prostate. It must have shown on his face when he did, because he and John cried out at almost the exact same time.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John breathed. “I can’t believe you’re really…”

“Here?”

“Interested,” John said with a hint of hysterical giggle in his tone. “Thought I would never… that I’d have to…”

“Yes to all of it,” Sherlock declared. “Yes to a sexual relationship, yes to you punishing me whenever I deserve it. Yes to you giving me orders and manhandling me into position and making me choke on your penis any time you like. Sex is only ‘not my area’ when it’s not with you.”

“Show me.” John’s gaze locked on where Sherlock’s hand was working frantically at his arsehole. “Show me how much you want it.”

“Can I--can I touch--”

“Not your cock. Anything but your cock.”

Sherlock brought his slightly slobbery left hand to his chest and pinched his nipple, _hard._ Combined with a particularly ambitious thrust that just _baaaarely_ succeeded in brushing his prostate, it was enough. His orgasm tore a deep groan from his throat and had him nearly doubling over as he came.

“Sherlock. Fuck.” John’s grip sped up for six, seven strokes, then he was swearing and coming too. 

Sherlock went ahead and toppled sideways because his transport’s structural integrity had apparently undergone a dramatic failure.

“That. Was. Insane,” John panted. “Maddest thing I’ve ever done. And yes, I know--”

“You invaded Afghanistan,” Sherlock finished for him.

“Precisely.” John grinned. “You’re… you’re really okay with this, then? Not offended?”

Sherlock glanced down at the surprisingly large pool of semen he’d just made on John’s bedroom floor. “Do I look offended?”

“It’s only, you never talk about sex. And I’ve never heard you mention having an ex-boyfriend _or_ an ex-girlfriend. Unless--was Sebastian…?”

“Oh, God, no. Even in my worst cocaine days I still had higher standards than that. Please never reference Sebastian Wilkes when we’re semi-clothed ever, ever again.” Sherlock firmly tamped down on a mental image of his former tormentor in the throes of sexual bliss. “I’ve never mentioned it because I’ve never had one.”

“Ah.” John watched him quietly for a moment. “Sherlock, are you a virgin?”

 _Virginity. So antiquated._ “Depends,” Sherlock shot back. “Did this count? Because I didn’t actually get to touch you, and you never actually got around to spanking me, so…”

“You’re an arse.” John carefully wiped his damp hand on a tissue, then beckoned Sherlock over to the bed. “Come here so I can touch you and you can tell me all the deviant sexual behaviors you’re going to want to indulge in, then. We don’t have to call it a cuddle if you don’t want to.”

Sherlock found, surprisingly, that he didn’t mind.


End file.
